


9.8 m/s²

by uberchrome



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 08:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13853994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uberchrome/pseuds/uberchrome
Summary: Sehun is trapped in a makeshift wonderland. Luhan keeps on chucking scientific equations out of the window. And Jongin, good old Jongin, oozes sex appeal and tension as comfortably as a teacher might sprout out historical facts to a detached crowd.





	9.8 m/s²

 

 

In a floor between tall, looming skyscrapers and herds of street vendors—yelling out rollback prices and a list of vegetables that could make nutritionists proud—Luhan could be found living with Sehun. Though it’s not exactly _living,_ but more of like Luhan _trying to live_ while Sehun borrows life from him with the help of an imaginary tube between his bluish veins and the underside of Luhan’s wrist.

 

Their relationship is what psychologist or biologist or, _whatever-they’re-supposed-to-be_ -ist might call a parasitic relationship. A symbiotic relationship wherein one benefits (Sehun), while the other suffers (Luhan). As Luhan waits for the elevator to halt on their floor, and then finally groan open, he realizes that no one had arranged for things to be this way.

 

 _Ding,_ somewhere above him, the elevator signals. He steps out into the bright corridor that’d light his way to the apartment he shares with Sehun. The white plastic bag he’s clutching makes a rather annoying sound; he timidly ignores it by walking faster.  He doesn’t run, Luhan never runs. His father once told him; _when you run, you fall and when you walk, you don’t._ Since then, Luhan’s done nothing but stay on the safe side with the only bump on the road he fell for being Sehun.

 

Twelve years’ worth of painting, polishing his skills, and learning some more had Luhan accumulating a large sum of money in exchange for his commissions—that have, by the way, garnered praises from the four corners of the world. And even with the knowledge that he could have lived anywhere in this earth, this twenty-four-year old decides to just situate himself in the artistic area of Hongdae—where rain falls like death’s tears and university students treat it as their muse.

 

Once he made his way inside, Luhan shrugs off the wool trench coat his manager insists he wears ( _you’re good looking,_ says Suho coupled by an intense glare, _you don’t have to fit right into the artists-are-messy-cliché. this is real world and the real world is filled with eyes that would judge you even on the clothes you wear, especially on the clothes you wear_ ). Luhan detests squabbling, so he simply nods every time Suho lands on his doorstep, carrying crisp bags with designer labels he can’t even pronounce correctly, ranging from Armani, to Burberry, to Chanel to Yves Saint La _-whatever_. But, of course, he draws the line whenever leopard prints and unflattering cuts are bought up.

 

“Welcome home,” Sehun appears behind Luhan, standing on tiptoes to rest his chin against the platform of Luhan’s shoulder. It doesn’t fit perfectly, and Sehun’s bones dig into Luhan’s skin as his arms wrap around the latter’s neck. He follows the routine and mumbles a _yeah, I’m home_ under his breath, causing Sehun to snuggle against him tighter.

 

Human flesh and rough breaths are supposed to be warm, yet as Luhan kisses Sehun and waltzes them to their bedroom, he keeps on shoving the fact that Sehun’s too cold to be normal out of the pockets of his mind. His lips respond to Sehun’s, and Luhan knows he isn’t supposed to think of this, but he does and he ends up comparing their intense kisses and shredded moans to someone doing CPR.

 

Sehun’s head rests against the wrinkled sheets carved by their heated bodies. Luhan doubts if it’s really true that only one of them should survive. What scares him wasn’t the fact that he might die, but the truth that he doesn’t really care.  Well, not anymore.

 

 

—

 

To cool off, Luhan would struggle with lifting buckets of acrylic, a cluster of paintbrushes, and bottles containing tap water into the living room. There’s scarcely a white space here—since every inch is either illustrated with murals of cities, of sunlight, of trees, and things that normal people take for granted. Luhan brings the outside world into the walls of his place with the aid of blended colors and crying water patterns. Thanks to the genius resting on Luhan’s fingertips, Sehun sees the real world without having to be there.

 

Sehun is thirty-six steps away from him, and dying to know what about New York. So, like always, Luhan guides different brush sizes, dips them in the colors that seemed vivid in his mind, and starts to outline the New York Skyline Luhan had once visited when he was eighteen and a struggling art student (this was before he met Sehun).

 

There’s a long chain of zeroes in Luhan’s bank account which translates to him being able to withdraw a specific amount and fly off to Manhattan, or wherever.  Whenever he’s up for it.

 

Sehun, on the other hand, will never be able to do that. Luhan paints the cities Sehun’s never going to visit into the crevice of the hard wall; an artist striving to breathe life into the craters of the cold moon.

 

—

 

 

“I have no words for your shit,” Luhan exclaims. Baekhyun chuckles beside him, because it’s the closest thing to a compliment he could get from the doe-eyed man. The two close friends—one a painter, the other a photographer—stare at the thong of people composed of swishes of satin and lace, strings of pearls,  tuxedos donned with pristine neckties, and women who wore lipsticks the color of their escort’s blood.

 

Inwardly, Baekhyun nibbles on the truth that this is where he and Luhan belongs: in the midst of heavy-scented mistresses, plastic smiles, and insincere laughter that has gathered to witness beauty as it’s showcased in wooden frames and fluorescent lights. Even at the young age of ten and eight, these two had known that they wanted in life. What they wanted where halcyon mornings and wasted nights spent sharing slurred kisses with dashing strangers they don’t even know the last name of. They wanted fame and prestige and to create something that would last forever, now here they are with the world at their feet.

 

Baekhyun steals a glance at Luhan, pity scraping through his heart upon seeing the dark circles under his childhood friend’s once-vibrant eyes. Years ago, one could have used these adjectives to describe Luhan; amazing, perfect, flawless, untouched, pure, and innocent. Presently, they had all withered down to; abused, torn, exhausted, drained, and a hundred and fifty nine more words that could sum up Luhan after Oh Sehun was done with him.

 

“You’ve really made it big,” Luhan reverently sighs, eyes taking in the glossy photographs displayed on the pristine boards. Baekhyun nods. He takes in the appreciation from Luhan’s lips and stores it in a secret compartment of his heart; messages from people that matter are important.

 

“So did you,” Baekhyun exclaims, fingers pointing at Luhan’s well-sculpted jaw. “Luhan, a well-renowned contemporary painter with works featured in magazines and galleries in Paris, Milan, and Tokyo and in other art capitals where they’ve been highly acclaimed.”

 

Luhan elbows Baekhyun because he doesn’t know if he’s mocking him, or simply being playful. “Wow, twelve years of hard work, huh.”

 

“Let’s toast to that.” Baekhyun stands up, tilting his head to the direction of the exit. “My treat.”

 

“I can’t. I have to look after Sehun.” His lips are saying one thing, but his eager eyes are whispering another. An internal battle between conscience and need.

 

“Okay, I understand.” Baekhyun doesn’t.

 

 

He’s still mulling this over while Luhan excuses himself to disappear into the blurred lights. He wonders if silent companionship is enough to prevent the ember threatening to burst into arson inside Luhan’s nerves. With Sehun, Baekhyun perceives that Luhan would never be able to unleash his true potential. Sehun holds him back, just like he always had.

 

He gets on with his life, talking to glassy-eyed critics and curious visitors inside the intricately decorated hall. It isn’t until he comes across a man with a messy stack of blonde-hair resting nearly six-feet tall when Baekhyun stops. The stranger is examining Baekhyun’s favorite piece—a snapshot of a bright fire taking its toll on an abandoned warehouse—with eyes containing a hidden spark in them, as if they’re dangerous enough to pierce through anything. And sure enough, as the stranger heard Baekhyun’s approaching footsteps, he fixes his gaze on Baekhyun’s face. Baekhyun sheds bright red and hopes that the stranger can’t read his mind. His thoughts are embarrassing enough as it is.

 

“Hello,” The stranger has a deep, husky voice that makes him think of sex and kitchen countertops.

 

Baekhyun forces out a smile, waiting for the alphabet and words to start making sense again before replying.  “Hi.”

 

 

—

 

 

Luhan fell in love with the Sehun who showcased scars and bruises while carrying a knapsack filled with unsolved problems and hidden secrets. They met on a particularly chilly night (by accident), and happen to stick beside each other since then (on purpose). By the time that their second year together glided around, Sehun was still the same, and Luhan was much worse.

 

They’re having their typical fight again.

 

“But I want to go out! I want to live! I want to see the sun! I don’t want to be trapped here!” Sehun yells, sputtering out hate and agony as sharp as the bones protruding from his shoulders.

 

“You can’t, dear.” Luhan chokes out, arms locked around Sehun’s waist in a poor attempt to keep his wandering soul home. “You can’t. It’ll hurt you. It can kill you, remember those times you’ve tried? Please don’t. I don’t want to nearly lose you.”

 

“Damn this disease.” Sehun continues fighting. Luhan holds on. After eight minutes of strangled cries—that morphed to broken sobs only an exhausted soul can produce—Sehun calms down at last.

 

“We can go out later at night, when the sun’s down.” Luhan reassures Sehun with a pat on the back. They both know that no amount of SPF could protect Sehun from the harsh rays of the sun and the vile reactions it can cause to his skin. Goodness knows how much they’ve tried.

 

“Okay,” Sehun lets himself get dragged to the couch by Luhan. He stares at the walls, Luhan at the window. Tears well up at the corners of Sehun’s eyes upon seeing Luhan’s effort and an _iloveyou_ starts to bubble in his throat, but he locks his lips shut because somewhere along the fights, broken plates, spoilt dinners, and lack of understanding, a thick wall of invisibility had started to block Sehun from Luhan. Saying those words won’t change a thing; they’re too far gone to ever hear, much less listen to the other.

 

Neither of them knew the right words to say, so they breathed in oxygen and breathed out empty hearts and empty lungs.

 

—

 

Three weeks later, heavy rain falls in rhythm with the footsteps sloshing against the puddles. Rain always gets people rushing; to get their laundry in, to get off the road, to get inside the house, to be protected from the liquid dropping by to dampen everything. Luhan escapes by being in a place where he’s supposed (not want) to be—on the seventh floor of the company’s building. Inside Suho’s office, to be precise.

 

“How’s my favorite painter?” Suho affectionately ruffles Luhan’s hair. Luhan scowls.

 

“You mean your _only_ painter?”

 

“Fine by me if you want to degrade yourself.”

 

“I’m well, the same.” Luhan replies, long fingers tapping systematically against the Suho’s mahogany desk. If there’s one thing that Luhan could never picture himself to be: it’s Suho. His manager slash self-proclaimed friend is constantly surrounded with inked papers and neatness and schedules to follow it actually makes Luhan think of tornadoes and disasters.

 

Suho hands Luhan a piece of paper. Luhan reads it; it’s a list of some of his paintings.

 

“Robert Dunley, from New York is curious about you. You know him right?” Suho asks.

 

“The owner of the large chain of galleries in Europe?”

 

“Yes,” Suho confirms, loosening his tie. “He saw your work and would like to purchase some of it to sell.”

 

 Luhan doesn’t have to hear anymore; he knows the whole business. Some art gallery owner’s going to commission his paintings for a high amount, and sell it off in his gallery for an even higher amount. Artists create; people like Suho and this Robert guy sells. “Sure, whatever. It’s your job anyway.”

 

“There’s a teensy-weensy problem. He wants you to be there. You know, to visit and to talk to potential clients. He seemed to be pretty enamored by your work.”

 

There are flashes of greens and heavy skies along busy streets leading to superb buildings in Luhan’s mind. New York, with all its brilliant, dazzling beauty translates to being the water that can quench Luhan’s thirst for adventure. But Sehun’s empty orbs pierce through him. He shakes his head. “I can’t.”

 

“There’s a difference between can’t and don’t want. You should know better.” Suho advices, and before Luhan could utter a comeback, the door slides open.

 

Luhan lets his gaze rest on the newcomer, and even allows it to linger more than what was polite. Strangers aren’t supposed to be striking and intimidating. They aren’t supposed to make you want to sit back down because your knees feel like two twigs incapable of holding your anatomy upright. And most of all, strangers shouldn’t have the ability to cause you to gulp the second they open their lips to speak.

 

“Old fart, I’ll be going now.” The stranger with sun-kissed skin (a far cry from the ivory white Luhan’s been used to) tells Suho. Suho laughs, the term shrugged off like dust on his shoulders. Suho has his guard down and Luhan’s gaze flies back and forth between his manager and the dashing stranger, trying to figure out the link between these two.

 

“Take care,” Suho says, but the visitor might have not caught it, for he slithered out as easily as he came in.

 

“Who was that?” Luhan tries to hide the curiosity behind a question.

 

“Kim Jongin, my cousin. He’s a freelance curator who happened to stop by Seoul to be a guest for this private museum.”

 

“Oh, where does he usually work?”

 

“Anywhere, you can place him in a garbage dump, and he’ll scrape his way to the top. People like to call him a chameleon because Jongin can be anywhere and look like he belongs.”

 

Luhan smiles and nods, trying to lodge the dust of envy swirling in his lungs. Not that long ago, he was once a free spirit with no ailing lover slowing down his progress.

 

—

 

 

“And his name is Chanyeol and gosh! He has the most adorable voice ever! You’re going to love him!” Baekhyun shares with exaggerated hand movements. Luhan’s eyes are wide open. He doesn’t look like someone who’s been suffering from over-the-top fangirling by his best friend for over an hour. Looks can really be deceiving.

 

“What happened then?”

 

“We went for coffee after the exhibit, and he’s such a sweetheart!” Baekhyun places his hand over his heart and sighs. “I think I’m in love.”

 

“That’s what you said about _yoga guru- Kris_ last time,” Luhan makes a clucking sound with his tongue. “Look how it turned out. I hope that this Chanyeol isn’t really a wanker who can’t even stomach the thought of getting below the belt. Oh, and let’s also wish that he still doesn’t live with his mother.”

 

“Things like that don’t happen twice.” Baekhyun huffs and looks around the restaurant. Couples are leaning close to each other with their elbows resting on covered tables and glistening silverware. This is comfort to Baekhyun; classy Italian restaurants situated in the heart of the city with their melancholy violin music playing in the background. Luhan says he likes this place because of the delicious food. Baekhyun’s just here to appreciate the waiters’ rear. Now _that_ is a very fine piece of art.

 

The utensils smacks together as Baekhyun eats his ravioli. He only stops when Luhan sighs. “I’m tired.”

 

“I’m tired—I want to go home, or I’m tired—of everything in my life because I am not perfect like Baekhyun?”

 

“Of everything, and not because I’m not you. I don’t know. I just feel exhausted.” Luhan looks down on his untouched food (made romantic by the chandelier’s yellow lights). “I don’t think I can quit either.”

 

“You never try.” Baekhyun whispers and Luhan doesn’t reply because it struck a chord, nerve, or whatever’s left to be struck.

 

 _You never try. There’s a difference between can’t and don’t want. You should know better._ Phrases and sentences left by his close friends and relatives before keeps on ringing in his mind. Luhan can’t find the _cancel_ button to stop the noise. “I don’t want to try. I don’t know what to be or how to live if I’m not with Sehun now.”

 

“Preferred adjustments.”

 

“Excuse me?” Luhan asks, taking a sip from the glass of ice-cold water.  It moistens his tongue and throat, and it’s exactly what he needs.

 

“Preferred adjustments, like in photography. I have a personal favorite when it comes to adjustments, like the shutter speed, brightness, etc. I’m guilty of using it almost all the time.” Baekhyun shares with a modest smile. “But it’s not practical and not really advisable. Like no matter how much I want to use that when taking pictures in dim light, it won’t work. That’s why I have to make adjustments to get the desired effect. You don’t always have to like the things that will benefit you.”

 

Again, Luhan stays quiet and remains like that until he arrived home.

 

—

 

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

 

The annoying grandfather clock Luhan keeps in their bedroom clicks and ticks.  Sehun cringes whenever he hears that irritating sound and Luhan knows this. But then again, Luhan also hates not seeing Sehun eat, and Sehun knows that. Years spent being together must have made them immune to the others’ qualms and nagging.

 

Sehun feels like his organs are getting soft, and half of him is disappearing. He mentally tells himself to fight and this is all just an illusion—his psychiatrist said so. _You’re still alive. You’re still alive. Your name is Sehun and you’re allergic to sunlight (solar urticarnia—as your doctor likes to call it). You’re clinically depressed and Luhan’s in love with you. Or was. Or still is; it doesn’t really matter. You’re alive and they always tell you that’s what’s supposed to matter._ He chants like a ritual while watching Luhan’s naked back. They remind him of valleys with peaceful surroundings, and it captivates like a trance.

 

He gets up, makes his way to the living room and stays statue-still. His sad eyes rake over the walls; at the beautiful sceneries captured in acrylics and watercolors. He stumbles to the triangularly shaped, pretzel-like tower and runs his fingers through its length. “Paris,” he whispers, mind rewinding back three years ago when he was a wayfaring teenager who liked to visit bookshops at the dead of night. Luhan used to love accompanying Sehun during bleak evenings. He’d sketch everything from the skies to elves’ sharp shoes; anything that Sehun would come across. It made Sehun want to recite his favorite quotations, much to Luhan’s delight.

 

Sehun would utter poetry while sitting on a wooden bench of an abandoned park. Luhan, with eyes twinkling like the stars above them, would animate Sehun’s imaginations using dog-eared scrapbooks and an HB pencil.

 

They used to be happy, Sehun wonders what happened. Maybe somewhere along the way, they’ve stopped trying and gave in to the strands of fate that had tangled itself in their necks and lifelines. Sehun looks around the colorful room again and again until it causes his head to hurt and his eyes to be bloodshot. Because everything that’s in here is everything that he’s never going to experience. _And if, for the first time, you consider other’s feelings aside from your own—you’d come to the conclusion that these are also things that Luhan wants for himself._

 

Maybe if he wasn’t so sick, Luhan would have loved him more. Maybe if he stopped despising food and medication so much, Luhan won’t be that disappointed. Maybe he should have just sucked it up and continued with his prose and sonnets. Maybe if he wasn’t such a failure, Luhan would still be holding his hand.

 

But somehow, he doesn’t think so. His hands are now too busy clutching razor blades, holding onto cigarettes; letting go. Sehun breaks down to cry.

 

 

—

 

Days blurred to weeks, and then to months and the next thing that Luhan knew, his exhibit’s waiting around the corner. Suho’s a mess covered in sharp suits that moves around the city with plans in mind and people to meet. Staff members scramble frantically inside the gallery Luhan frequents eager to please critics and visitor’s eyes. The week before an exhibit is always the most nerve-wracking; everything just _has_ to be perfect.

 

Of course, following the rules of nature, it’d be the most important one who’s the least concerned. Luhan smiles at the message Suho’s sent him regarding the venue, the theme, the setting, swirling down to the hand-picked guest. Three fifty-nine in the afternoon finds Luhan opening the door of his apartment after a tiring day in his studio. He’s greeted by the sickly-sweet scent of roses and tulips. Luhan walks forward, and what he saw made him want to run (for the first time).

 

In the farthest end of the living room where the balcony is, Sehun stands. Luhan and Sehun are separated by scattered rose petals and pages of Luhan’s old scrapbooks resting on dried paint. Luhan’s never seen Sehun like this—he’s wearing nothing but white jeans, and he’s perfectly under the sunlight with phrases scribbled using a black marker nearly covering Sehun’s exposed skin. Looking closer, Luhan reads; _hands, smooth jaw line, voice, toes, easily angered_ —and he understands (they’re the things that Luhan hates about himself.)

 

“What are you doing? Get back inside immediately! You’ll get rashes.” Luhan remarks and moves closer. But it also causes Sehun to take a step backwards, edging closer to the low railing. He shakes his head; _no_.

 

By the time Luhan reached the center of the room, Sehun’s already one inch away from unhindered air.

 

“Get back here,” Luhan runs, and that’s when Sehun smiles at him—in a way that he’d never smiled before; freely.

 

“Please,” Sehun begs at the same time he flung his body to the open air. “Live.”

 

“No!” Luhan closes the gap, but Sehun’s too far down to be reached. He always had been. Watching Sehun fall triggered Luhan’s memories.

 

 

When he was in ninth grade, his science teacher had told him, in a clipped tone, that in the absence of an atmosphere; things fall at the same speed. Luhan disregarded science then, and he crept back to the safety of his easel and colors. Now, he wishes that he at least listened in hopes that his teacher might have mentioned something about stopping things from falling—if there was ever a way. There comes that stern voice again; _A free-falling object has an acceleration of 9.8 meter per second square._

 

Sehun fell aimlessly, life slipping through his loose fingertips, hair dishelved by the air as it guides him through gravity’s eager hand. It actually didn’t matter how fast, or slow, or hard. Sehun’s fall was like a car crash: quick, agonizing, beautiful, and something that everyone wants to witness. 

 

But there’s nothing else he could do. He can’t go back thirteen years earlier, or even three to save Sehun’s life. Luhan leans against the railing where Sehun lastly held on to, then let go of along with the reasons and memories. Thinking was something Luhan never did while looking at Sehun’s disfigured body lying on the sidewalk meters, inches, feet, and lightyears from where he’s standing slumped.

 

 _He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone._ He lets the words play on a loop in his mind as they police came barging in, flashing their ID’s and badges like they’re proud to be in possession of it. _He’s gone. He’s gone. Gravity couldn’t get him fast enough._ It continues even as Baekhyun and Suho and Jongdae comfort him using fragile words and warm blankets that can’t even heat him down to the core. Men in uniforms had asked him questions he can’t recall answering. Maybe they gave up trying to pry details out of him, or maybe they finally figured it out themselves. Either way, Luhan’s glad they evaporated away from his apartment like flies in a clean place. 

 

Luhan shifts in his bed—he can’t even remember how he got here _, has it been this late already_?—and he can’t picture Sehun free falling. Closing his lids, he could see the Sehun two years before in his mind’s eye, when he still liked to read poetry and talk about things Luhan tries to understand. _When I die,_ Sehun had told him as he press a rose petal to the ground, _I want to die alive._ Luhan understood, or at least he thought he did as he had sealed it with a curt nod.

 

The rumpled sheets and empty space where Sehun’s body should be makes Luhan wish he could time travel back to that time just to tell Sehun, ‘darling, you never really lived. You were dead even before you killed yourself.’

 

 

 

—

 

 

“I’m expecting a new Hermes bag once you return. I’m tired of all the Gucci.” This is Tao’s version of saying goodbye to a friend who’s just lost a lover, and is now determined to cool off to the Europe of everyone’s dreams.

 

“Grab me something French. A maid costume, preferably. I found out that Chanyeol likes French stuffs, so I’ll give him something French for our fourth monthsary.” Was Baekhyun’s request.

 

“Just come back alive. But I won’t mind if you give me a new watch.” Jongdae chips in.

 

Their frivolous requests reminds Luhan of Grimm’s version of the Beauty and the beast; about the daughters and how their needs reflect their personalities and differences. Except of course, the vintage setting of the fairytale is incomparable to the state-of-the-art interior design of the Incheon airport where Suho had arranged his flight and schedule. First to Amsterdam, then down to the warm alleyways of Rome, and finally to the romantic dusk belonging to Paris where another exhibit will be held. Suho planned everything from start to finish in the hopes that Luhan would get inspired to paint more—leaving Suho extra dollars in his wake. In Suho’s galaxy, it’s always about business. The arrangement of Sehun’s funeral almost a year ago involves business, and even strategizing a way to let Luhan take a breather means business.

 

“You know you could just give me a call, right?” Luhan smiles, hands tight on his luggage. It’s the only one he bought. Pack light, leave lighter.

 

“I hope you understand that cracking country codes is a pain in my beautiful ass. I’ll just email you. You do know how to email, right?” Baekhyun asks, earning a light chuckle from Jongdae. But it doesn’t mean that Baekhyun’s funny, it just happens that Jongdae seems to laugh at everything.

 

“I’m a painter, not a provincial nugget.” Luhan bites back as he starts to walk to the direction of the check-in department with a slight wave of his sweaty hand.

 

His friends wave back, all of them silently wishing Luhan good luck and get well soon (emotionally) wishes because Luhan has always been an expensive doll you could see in one of those toy stores; waxy with the look of something that would shatter at the slightest touch of clumsy hands.

 

“Now let’s hope he trips into a dick,” Baekhyun quips, and because it’s actually funny, Tao joins Jongdae’s chuckles.

 

 

—

 

 

Amsterdam took his breath away after days of traversing the streets of _de Wallen_ —the oldest area of the town. He basked in warm cafes nesting in front of quaint canals while listening to the delightful sound of old men grumbling and conversing in Dutch. The sound of the foreign language tickles something in him, and maybe that’s what leads him to be in such a good mood as he sets his easel and palette down the balcony of his hotel room overlooking the _Oude Kerk_ on a particularly inky dark night _._ With each stroke, dip, and splatter of a brush comes a whisper of gratitude for Suho and his infallible ways. The fresh air did him good.

 

Rome was ethereal. The comforting breeze seemed to be his guide as he talked his way with conversational Italian to the Trevi Fountain. The neoclassical atmosphere lifted his spirits and injected inspiration to the tip of Luhan’s fingers and veins.

 

Paris, unfortunately, was a catastrophe that triggered another misfortune the moment Luhan threw a coin meant for the fountain water to catch. Too bad that his direction was too off,  and it landed on the head of a particular stranger—with a face that didn’t turn out to be that strange the moment it closed in on Luhan with a scowl.

 

—

 

 

Luhan finally dug the name through the pool of his shallow memory. “Kim Jongin?”

 

The named stranger turns, picks up the coin Luhan missed, and successfully tossed it into the fountain. He squints his eyes at the porcelain-skinned man who called out his name, as if doing that would help him place this man in his rightful place. Jongin is aware that he should know this man; he’s definitely seen him before—but not enough for his face to be remembered easily.

 

“My name is Luhan. I’m the painter managed by your cousin Suho. Also, I am sorry.”

 

At this, Jongin tosses his head back and draws out careless laughter; the way Luhan introduced himself sounded queer. Queer isn’t normal, and therefore Jongin thinks it’s nice. With hands stuffed in pockets to regain heat and grinning lips, Jongin takes a step closer to Luhan. “It’s cool. Now, Luhan, if you don’t mind; what did you wish for?”

 

“My life to change.” Luhan replies bluntly, thinking that he’s got nothing left to lose and _why not strip bare, right?_

 

A pair of leather shoes belonging to Jongin walks a few feet closer; far, but not too far for Luhan to not smell the ocean-like aroma Jongin’s cologne emits. There’s a mysterious glint veiled by Jongin’s chocolate eyes, and it should have served as a warning signal for Luhan to start getting the hell out of the plaza, but he ignores it and lets Jongin speak with a voice as warm and soft as the croissant Luhan had for breakfast. “Tomorrow. The Louvre. 6 P.M. Let’s see if we can make that come true.”  

 

Jongin left with a confident smirk on his face and a quarter of Luhan’s heart with him.

 

—

 

Kim Jongin, it turns out after six weeks of scheduled meetings and surprise visits, is a successful bachelor who oozes sex appeal and tension as comfortably as a teacher might sprout out historical facts in a boisterous classroom. Kim Jongin is like mystery coated with sparkling teeth and secretive glances. An unsolved equation behind rosy cheeks and short, handwritten letters.

 

Luhan, it also turns out after hours of getting tangled in sheets and breathing out eager groans, is a man who won’t mind having to nitpick the details out of Jongin’s flesh one by one. He finds the letters romantic, and Jongin’s cunning ways even more so. He normally goes for the submissive type, but he’s unable to choose (much less think) once his naked body is trapped between Jongin’s toned arms. Reasons, time, places, people, they all start to blur and get thrown into a bowl of crazy once Jongin’s lips are sucking on Luhan’s neck under the golden light of a four-star hotel facing the Eiffel.

 

Jongin thrusts and commands; grunts and moans. Luhan writhes and clutches at headboards for his sanity to not leave him as Jongin’s tongue flickers on his sensitive spots. Jongin does to Luhan what the moon does to a darkened sky.  

 

But then after a round or two, or three, or four or more, these two would lay side by side; their flesh touching but never in intimacy. They talk as sweat and bodily fluids cling to their skin; a reminder of what they’ve done and what they’re probably going to do again. With an arm behind his head, Jongin would share about his job; what he does, how he does it, and about how it sometimes bore and fascinates him. He asks Luhan if it’s possible to feel the opposite things at the same time. Luhan answers with a peck on Jongin’s temples and a muffled ‘ _well, you make me smile and then wish you’ve been sodomized by Satan in the anus, so I guess what you’re saying is possible_.’ There’s sadness in Luhan’s eyes that Jongin knows painfully well. Sometimes, he’d look at Luhan and the pain in them reflects his own.

 

They continue like that; some nights, Luhan would recreate Jongin’s competent back in the shades between caramel and apricot on his easel. On mornings they’d go out for coffee, and some fresh bread while swinging their hands back and forth as they examine the gallery Luhan’s works will be exhibited in. Jongin would instruct people, long fingers emphasizing his authority as it glides around the room, and he’d always leave Luhan in the side, thinking about how convenient Jongin is.

 

“What is the cure for sadness?” Luhan asks, tracing the _Orion_ on Jongin’s forearm.

 

“There is no cure for sadness. You can take the pills and write your feelings out in a journal and that sadness might ease a little; it may even stop consuming your life entirely, but it won’t completely disappear. Sadness will always knock on your door, no matter how hard you try to prevent it from getting in.” Jongin passionately replies. It comes to Luhan that maybe, just maybe, he’s been sleeping with someone that’s made up of broken fragments like he is.

 

 

—

 

Jongin dropped the three words after watching an opera followed by a fancy dinner. Luhan’s half-undressed when Jongin’s plump limps open to voice out the words Luhan’s been dreading. “I love you.”

 

“Bullshit, you don’t mean that.” Luhan falters, doe-like eyes skimming through everything in the room but Jongin.   

 

“I do. Maybe you just don’t want to believe it. I love you, whether you believe it or not. I saw your calm, sleeping face. Yeah, like in those dramas, but fuck. My heart leapt out of the walls of my throat and I haven’t been able to catch it since.”

 

Luhan gives his knees a break and slumps down on the bed, maintaining a distance from Jongin. “The last person whom I told I love you to died.” He has no clear idea what he’s trying to say, but he says them anyway because it seemed to make sense to him.

 

“So did I. His name was Kyungsoo and I loved him in a way that I could never love anyone else again. He killed himself by means of overdose, but that doesn’t stop me from loving anyone again.” Jongin shares with eyes rougher than his voice. Luhan wants to know if that’s how he looked liked the afternoon of Sehun’s death.

 

“Mine was Sehun and I loved him, but stopped after a few months. I don’t know. I don’t remember. He was dead even before he jumped off the balcony nine floors from the ground. I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

And they didn’t.

 

 

—

 

Eventually, Luhan drifted away. He stopped with the phone calls and visits. Icky paints and thick brushes bought him temporary comfort. His phone rings with calls from Jongin. It rings and rings and Luhan ignores it until they stop coming. The bluish ghost of sadness, who finds its way into the beds of lonely humans again and again, had been desperately sent away by Luhan’s cold fingers. But, the lingering afterglow still paints the walls of his room with melancholy.

 

 The exhibit’s tomorrow and Jongin’s the assigned curator; it’d be his job to converse with people, to tell them about the paintings and analyze the meanings behind them. Luhan doubts he’s strong enough to just stand there and listen to Jongin’s musical voice talking about feelings and reasons.

 

Half of the sun is nearly on the horizon, and Luhan pities it through the window walls.

 

“You’re so beautiful, too bad that not everyone’s around to witness you.” He whispers with bloodshot eyes, wondering how he started to be so morose, so sad, and so difficult. The room smells like vanilla, not of Jongin. Luhan groans. _Well, what the hell did he expect when he started seeing Jongin? Of course, it would turn out like this. It was bound to. Of course, this is the city of love and we're two lonely people._

 

 _Maybe,_ he argues with his inner thoughts, _I just stuck around long enough to see if he’d turn out to be different, or he won’t feel anything at all. Leaving was the right thing. It was the right thing. But when did he start loving me?_ The second he came up with the question, he runs his hand through his hair. There’d never be an answer for that.

 

—

 

 

Luhan sought after the protection of the empty room in the gallery; hands fumbling for the cigarette pack in his trousers and the lighter inside his shirt pocket. His back carries pats of strangers who congratulate him on his commissions and paintings. His hands are too tired from shaking foreign ones too much, so after he lights his cigarette, he precariously balances it between his dry lips and takes a long drag out of it.

 

The bridge of his nose is massaged by his left index finger and thumb; Luhan is alone in the dark. The butchering of foreign language still catches up to his ears, but they’re all burned by the fire of his thoughts. He instructs himself to not think of Jongin, but that bastard kept on creeping on his thoughts with that suggestive smirk, and sensuous voice.

 

“And this,” Jongin had caressed the edges of _Canals and Canters’_ canvas in a slow and smooth way with eyes trained on Luhan—who had been doing his best to act like he didn’t want to be here—to serve as a reminder of the way he touched the older atop silk sheets and soiled pillowcases. “Had been inspired by the allure of the Netherlands. As you could see with the colors and styles used, the artist”—pointed glare at Luhan—“was under the trance that could only be cast by the beauty of a foreign place to the point where he just had to depict a worn out caterer walking down the banks of Oude Kerk.”

 

By the time they came across the fifth painting, Luhan decided he has enough of Jongin’s not-so-subtle-messages and looks. At present, he shakes his head, trying to figure out how many minutes he’s got left before people, reeking of Parisian high-life, would notice his absence. He’s hoping that they’d just be captivated, buy, and then get done with it, like a grand, but awfully boring, runway show.

 

Clouds of smoke flies around him. Wondering if it’s possible to choke on nicotine, tobacco _, death._ Tantalizing oceanic cologne overpowers cigar scent, and Luhan curses everything; down to the squeaky clean marbles to the worshipped galaxies. The obvious wearer says. “Your works are stunning.”

 

“ I know.” A shrug and marginal wave.

 

Jongin sits beside Luhan and it makes the latter question “I don’t remember inviting you to sit beside me.”

 

“You didn’t even get invited in my bed, but look at how that turned out.” Jongin quips, and then regrets it upon hearing Luhan crack his knuckles. He tries to stop him with “You’re too gay to punch.”

 

“Oh yeah? Let’s see.” Luhan threatens, leaving no opportunity for Jongin to answer. Knuckles kiss hollow cheekbones. Jongin laughs bitterly. It hurts like hell on the spot where bones met another flesh, but Jongin pretends like it doesn’t. There are a billion things that you have to be honest about; this one isn’t necessarily on the book.

 

“I finally figured you out,” Jongin’s eyes are trained on Luhan’s. The tilted head, lips stretched between grinning teeth, and raised brows had Luhan feeling like one of those Rubik’s cubes he loved solving. Jongin’s expression mirrors that of his own when he sees the sides with all the right colors. Jongin’s eyes scream _at last_. “You reminded me of myself.”

 

Luhan keeps quiet and continues with his cigar, bothering to lend an ear to Jongin. A quarter of him, much to his disappointment, would love to fuck the living daylights out of Jongin then and there while the remaining part tries to act like he’s got everything under shaky control.

 

“They say that misery finds company, yet they never tell us what happens after that, don’t they?” Jongin shakes his head, dust particles orbit around him like the sun. Well, maybe he’s the sun. On times that Jongin’s with Luhan, he always serves as the sun that light up a side of Luhan he never thought was there. Someone caring, indifferent, but definitely absorbed when it comes to things he’s passionate about. Sehun never bought this out of Luhan, and having things like that out in the open makes Luhan despise Jongin for making him vulnerable.

 

Jongin continues, arms crawling up to encircle Luhan’s neck. “Our similarities bounded us close, our differences even closer. We both had a jarful of shadows belonging to the people we’ve loved and lost, and we let that affect us when it shouldn’t have. Let them rest in peace; let’s live the life that they never get to finish. Fuck, I sound like I’m proposing.”

 

“You’re so gay,” Luhan chides, but his head finds comfort in the crook of Jongin’s neck. Footsteps and the _clickity-clack_ of heels against marble fill up the empty silence as Luhan holds his breath for Jongin’s words.

 

“Like I said, I figured you out, or so I thought. I kind of had the feeling that you’d go off into the sunset when I told you I love you, but I said it anyway because you just had to know that. I learned a lot of things, Luhan. Being a twenty-three year old, self-supporting dude, I _have_ to know things. But the most important one I’ve learned not from the mouth of a professor, but from the lips of an old lover.” Jongin kisses the bridge of Luhan’s nose—where it’s starting to turn cherry red, reminding him of reindeers and Christmas. “I learned that no matter what happens, you don’t give up on the ones you love. That’s what you’ve been doing. With that Sehun guy you told me about, with me once I told you how I felt. You gave up when you shouldn’t have. Maybe if you didn’t give up, that Sehun guy would still try to find the strength to live, but ironically, I’m glad you gave up because if you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here with me. I wouldn’t have been able to kiss you and familiarize myself with your body. I won’t be able to fall in love with you.”

 

Luhan gulps and nods. Everything that came out of Jongin’s lips were arrows that struck straight through his heart; making him bleed of the things he tried to deny and avoid.

 

“I won’t give up, and won’t let you either.” Jongin declares. Luhan doesn’t reply, choosing instead to press soft lips against plump ones and reach out his hands to grip the stardust that fell on Jongin’s raven hair. It closes the heated air and tension between them. And that, my friends, is good enough for Kim Jongin.

 

—

 

True to his word, Jongin doesn’t give up and it resulted in them doing things together, as if they’re connected at their fingertips. They went to places together; London, Seoul, Jeju (where Baekhyun and Chanyeol’s wedding were held). They laughed together; after Jongin introduced Luhan to the _Pororo_ world. They dined together; in flashy restaurants, and in their own kitchen once their house was built. They cried together; on nights when they should mourn for their deceased loves, and difficult times. Luhan and Jongin nearly did everything under the sky together, except one thing.

 

And that is, to die.

 

Wrinkled hands clutch the cold marble urn containing the ashes of Kim Jongin. The wind ruffles Luhan’s gray hair, as if reminding him of the number of years they’ve spent together. Luhan’s eyes have sunk in; he’s old. old. older. With a smile on Luhan’s face—years had taught him to appreciate the little things and not dwell on _we-still-might-have’s_ —he opens the lid, and gently tips it over.

 

 _You don’t give upon the one’s you love,_ Jongin had told him after a month and a half’s worth of observation.

 

But it took Luhan four decades to fill in the rest like a cloth’s finishing touch. _And the ones you love would also hold on. There are people in your life who were placed to be trial, and other people meant to be the ‘real thing’. Jongin was, and always will be, the real thing for me._

 

He’s sixty-nine now and he’s got no regrets as he observes the salt-and-pepper color of ashes flirt with the invisible air. As he watches it fall, Luhan recalls a particularly sunny day decades ago, when someone he used to love free-fell.

 

Lu Han smiles. Nine point eight meter per Second Squared; the acceleration of gravity. _Things,_ he observes while emptying the urn, _no matter how light or heavy, will always come down at a certain speed_. Somehow, this warms up the chambers of his heart, down to the spaces between his ribs. Sehun, or Jongin, or anything else that falls, will always kiss the ground with the same acceleration.

 

**F I N**

 

 


End file.
